Murphy's Law

Before moving forward after looking backward (getting on with 2010 after remembering and assessing the last decade, one movie, album and sporting event at a time) New Year’s Eve is that vertiginous event where you are recalling –or trying to forget– the past while anticipating –or dreading– the future, but at the same time living utterly in the moment.

This year is slightly different, because we are not only reflecting on the last twelve months, but the last ten years. I’ll join the cliched chorus and marvel at how fast it goes. Ten years, already? Exactly a decade ago I was up in the Big Apple, determined to see in the new millennium even if meant going down with the ship. Remember how terrified people were about Y2K? The clocks would stop, the computers would crash, Reality TV would disappear, et cetera. Of course, we made it through in one piece. If Reality TV is the price we had to pay for surviving the infamous fin de siecle, then so be it.

Through a combination of dumb luck and the audacity to hope (abetted by a full night of celebratory end-of-the-world cocktails) my friends and I stumbled right out into the middle of Times Square — which had been on total lockdown for more than two days (we ran into people who’d stood in place for 36 hours or more, pissing into cups and freezing to death in slow motion under their multiple layers): the folks who wanted to witness history in real time were packed in barricaded city blocks, behind ropes and more cops than there are donuts (or cops) at a Krispy Kreme convention. Long story short: a few of us were simply trying to get back home to watch the New Year (or obliteration of the planet) happen on TV, like any reasonable American would do. As it turned out, we ended up watching the ball drop less than five hundred feet in front of us. Once in a lifetime, one in a million. We not only lived, but lived to tell about it. And, despite the awkward oversight that enabled us to slip not-so-innocently under a chained line to mingle with the crowd, the security was stellar that whole weekend. Cops were everywhere and they had things under control. But it was more than that: once the clock turned to 2000 the craziest (and coolest) city in the world was partying like it was…well, 1999. And there was nothing but love and happiness amidst that spectacle. People were happy, perhaps exhilirated to still be alive. Hugs and high-fives abounded, and I did not see a single act of violence or ill-will as midnight lurched toward the hangover of the century. Good times, to be certain.

And I remember thinking: what a great time to be alive. What a positive omen for a new century. Of course, things didn’t quite pan out as predicted that evening. In the same city, less than two years later, everything changed forever. (In cities all over the country, less than one year later, the worst president in the history of America weaseled in on a technicality, ensuring that the idiotic and apathetic would ruin it for the rest of us, as usual.) It seemed like the rest of the decade was one calamity or crisis after another, testing even our capacity to absorb the inexplicable. And we still managed to make it, scarred and scared, to another decade. Another chance to make good on the work that needs to be done. For all of our sakes, let’s hope we do better this time around.

I went into 2009 prepared to deal with the inevitable passing of my best furry friend, and could not have imagined it would end up happening many months sooner than expected. That hurt. It still stings, every single day, but as anyone who has experienced any kind of loss knows, the harder it is, the better it was. It’s never enough to compensate for the pain by acknowledging the profundity of the love, but it helps. That was the big event for me this past year and it feels right to remember that, now, while celebrating that he was with me for just about a decade. Bittersweet, to be certain, but as Big Head Todd would say, more sweet than bitter.

And, as always, it’s a hell of a lot easier to keep these things in perspective by considering the (increasing) number of our brothers and sisters who are struggling just to be, here and overseas. And for entirely too many people (inside our borders but especially beyond) every year is only about one thing, survival. Here’s hoping better times (financially, spiritually) are on the horizon for all, but mostly for those that need it the most. Don’t be cynical: find a charity you can feel good about supporting, endorse the efforts of our great artists, tell your parents you love them, appreciate –and savor– the friends who always have your back. Be good to strangers and be better to yourself: you deserve it.

Friends, family, health, music, movies, books, good food and drink, and happy memories yet to be made. Those are some of my favorite things, and I am blessed to have enjoyed all in abundance throughout the 2000’s.  Here’s toasting much more of same, for as long as all of us are able to keep the party going.

Beethoven, Symphony No. 3, 1st Movement

Grant Green, “Exodus”

Rahsaan Roland Kirk, “Balm in Gilead”

John Coltrane, “Psalm”

Philip Glass, “String Quartet No. 5”

Jimi Hendrix, “Beginnings”

Bob Marley, “Revolution”

Bad Brains, “Leaving Babylon”

Living Colour, “Wall”

Antibalas, “NESTA (Never Ever Submit To Authority)”

On Sept. 15, 1963, four black girls were killed when a bomb went off during Sunday services at a Baptist church in Birmingham, Alabama, in the deadliest act of the civil rights era. (NYT)

Inspired by the disgraceful 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in 1963, Coltrane said of his elegy: “It represents, musically, something that I saw down there translated into music from inside me.” It is one of Coltrane’s enduring and devastating performances. Recorded with the “classic quartet” (McCoy Tyner on piano, Elvin Jones on drums, Jimmy Garrison on bass), Coltrane, already considered one of jazz music’s most emotional and sensitive players, managed to articulate the grief and the rage the occasion called for. A deeply spiritual man, Coltrane also conveyed the immutable senselessness of violence instigated by ignorance, but also, miraculously, managed to hint at the redemption of peaceful power through unified awareness. If Mingus’s “Haitian Fight Song” in part predicted the turmoil around the corner, “Alabama” was directly inspired by an actual event that demanded an outraged reaction. As only he could, Coltrane crafted a solo that is angry, somber, and somehow hopeful; a subdued epitaph for the innocent dead, but also a rallying cry for the not-so-innocent bystanders who needed to join the cause. The Alabama bombing was a tipping point in the civil rights movement, and Coltrane captured that moment where confusion and rage inspired an outpouring of solidarity.

You don’t have to be a jazz fan to appreciate that picture. But it helps.

Most people have never heard of Joe Maneri, so not too many folks are mourning the August 24 passing of this great musician. In addition to being a beloved teacher and father of jazz violinist Mat Maneri, he is rightly considered a pioneering figure in music. His inclusion of Turkish and Klezmer music into a more free jazz (think Ornette Coleman playing with one of Sun Ra’s bands covering traditional European music at a Greek orthodox wedding and you begin to get the picture) helped liberate and expand the possibilities of jazz improvisation. Like Coleman and Sun Ra, Maneri was an astute and original composer: his work is not immediately accessible, but patient ears quickly identify a very consistent logic and style.

Anyone who has seen the excellent American Splendor (a film celebrating the life of curmudgeonly comic book artist Harvey Pekar) has heard Maneri: his impossibly cool ”Paniots Nine” accompanies the opening credits. Pekar allegedly insisted that Maneri’s music be used, and this stands to reason as Pekar (himself a jazz critic) championed a largely obscure Maneri back in the ’90s. Indeed, it was John Zorn who helped release Paniots Nine (the title of the first track is also the title of the album), which makes all the sense in the world considering Zorn effectively took up Maneri’s baton in the ’80s and began cleverly integrating traditional Jewish music into his own compositions. It’s fair to say that Maneri, though lamentably overlooked for entirely too long, was the first major composer to actively bring those disparate elements and influences into free (but still swinging) jazz.

Anyone interested in some adventurous, unexpected, yet oddly familiar jazz would be happy to hear this album. The fact that this baby was languishing in the Atlantic Records’ vaults is both unbelievable and entirely typical. Of course this revelatory music would fall on the deaf ears of the dumb executives. Same as it ever was. Suffice it to say, jazz enthusiasts are forever indebted to Harvey Pekar for helping this see the light of day.

Father and son, together on stage making a joyful noise:

If asked who kept time for John Coltrane, most folks would go with Elvin Jones, as Jones was part of the “Classic Quartet” for the better part of the ’60s. But once Coltrane began moving further and further out, the great McCoy Tyner was replaced by Alice McLeod (later Alice Coltrane) and Jones was replaced by Rashied Ali (who passed on August 12). Although he was a serious and prolific musician in his own rite, he is most famously associated with Coltrane, particularly his work on what turned out to be Trane’s last sessions, (the ones that subsequently resulted in Interstellar Space and Expression). Much has been written about the former, not so much about the latter. Interstellar Space is in many ways all things to all people: it is simply a series of duets between Coltrane and Ali, but there is nothing simple about it. It is forbidding, volcanic, disorienting, gorgeous and exhausting. Simpletons would say it can scarcely be considered music; true believers insist it’s revelatory. For me it’s certainly sacred stuff, but an experience sufficiently intense that I only crave it on special occasions. Regardless, it was, and remains, remarkable–in concept but especially in execution–that Ali was willing (and able) to work without a net and go mano a mano with Coltrane, then at his most excoriating. It is a unique document for this fact alone; that it manages to succeed helps underscore the devotion fans have attached to it over the years.

And while I can only handle Interstellar Space in irregular doses, I continue to be mesmerized by Expression. This one features a full band, including Alice Coltrane (piano), the great Jimmy Garrison (part of the Classic Quartet) on bass, and Ali on drums. For the album’s centerpiece, the sixteen-plus minute opus “To Be”, Coltrane makes an especially inspired choice by bringing in Pharoah Sanders: the result is a duo of sorts (Coltrane for the first and only time playing flute for an entire song on record and Sanders accompanying him on piccolo). Garrison and Alice Coltrane provide an anchor for the woodwinds, which circle and flutter like moths above a streetlight. But in many ways, Rashied Ali is the focal point of the proceedings; he is never busy but always present, expertly managing to remain quietly intense in the background. This is percussion as painting: each brush stroke adding up to something bigger and more meaningful. It is a near perfect symmetry of cerebral instinct and graceful dexterity, and it is the type of sensitive yet forceful accompaniment that made Ali a legend. He is already missed.

John Coltrane.

Eric Dolphy.

McCoy Tyner.

Elvin Jones.

Any questions?

When Obama takes office in January of 2009, it will be a half-century since Free Jazz forefather Ornette Coleman dropped the provocatively titled “The Shape of Jazz to Come”. 1959 was a watershed year for jazz music (arguably the greatest single year for jazz in all history–which is saying a LOT). Here’s a taste: Miles Davis “Kind of Blue”, John Coltrane “Giant Steps”, Charles Mingus “Ah Um”. That is like the holy trinity of jazz music; all from the same year. But in the not-so-silent shadows a young, relatively unknown alto saxophonist was poised to fire the musical shot heard ’round the world–a shot that still reverberates today. “Kind of Blue” is correctly celebrated for establishing modal music, and a genuine evolution from bop and post-bop; “Giant Steps” is the apotheosis of the “sheets of sound” that John Coltrane had been practicing and perfecting for a decade; “Ah Um” is an enyclopedic history of jazz music, covering everyone and everything from Jelly Roll Morton to Duke Ellington. And each of those albums were immediately embraced, and remain recognized as genuine milestones today. But “The Shape of Jazz to Come” was incendiary and complicated: it inspired as much resistance as it did inspiration. Some folks (Mingus included) bristled that it was all so much sound and fury, signifying…little. But what Coleman (along with trumpet player Don Cherry, bassist Charlie Haden and drummer Billy Higgins–representing as solid a quartet as any that have made music, ever) achieved was, arguably, the most significant advancement since Charlie Parker hit the scene. Of course, Parker was also misunderstood and dismissed when his frenetic, almost incomprehensibly advanced alto saxophone assault began to cause scales to drop from audiences’ eyes–if not their ears. Like any genuine iconoclast of the avant garde, Parker and Coleman were not being new for newness sake; they had to fully grasp and master the idiom before they could transcend it. Tellingly, what was revolutionary and almost confrontational, then, seems rather tame and entirely sensible, now. Of course, it didn’t take 50 years for Coleman to resonate: he not only found his audience, John Coltrane–the all-time heavyweight champion–embraced his compatriot. He endorsed, and, crucially, he imitated. The Book of Revelation that Coltrane’s mid-’60s Impulse recordings comprise did, in many respects, grow directly out of the opening salvo fired by Coleman in ‘59.

Coleman’s compositions are nakedy emotional, unabashedly intense, totally human. Like the best jazz music, all of the instruments are communicating. What they are saying are different things, at different times, to different people. That is the power of this music. It was the soundtrack for a truly unique and momentous time in American history. It remains, more so than ever, the soundtrack of now.

1. Congeniality

2. Focus on Sanity

3. Peace